Atonement
by BondageInc
Summary: After a taste of being a god, the hunger for more transcends even death. After being a Spirit World detective, the sense of duty lives on. After giving up everything to save a man’s soul, all that’s left is to find a purpose in existence. Faux Pas sequel.
1. Prologue: Assembling the Pieces

A/N: Sequel to Faux Pas and Interphase – it is not necessary to read either of these, though it might be helpful. The basic premise is that in exchange for the charges against Sensui being dropped, Itsuki has gone to hell.

Disclaimer: Yu Yu Hakusho belongs to Yoshihiro Togashi.

**Atonement**

_Prologue – Assembling the Pieces_

Emptiness.

Cold.

Silence.

It was quiet. He preferred the quiet, because it meant he was not screaming.

Outside the window, the nothingness gathered and shifted.

He was not thinking of anything in particular. He concentrated on the intricate patterns only he could see, forming just beyond his grasp. His fingers touched the windowpane.

It would be so lovely to just be nothing. No worries, no cares, no pain, no sorrow. No regrets.

Absently, he rubbed at his eyes. They were sore. That wasn't unreasonable since he could not remember the last time he had been able to close them.

Really, if he had known that he was supposed to watch the video the whole way through, he never would have shut them in the first place. Maybe then he would still have his upper eyelids.

They'd regenerate though. If there was one thing he'd learned, it was that he would persevere.

He was here for eternity, after all.

Since he couldn't close his eyes, perhaps he'd just sit a while longer and watch.

* * *

There is a place you have been before, though you may not recognize it. It's been a long time. 

Since you last saw it, time's natural progression has altered the landscape drastically. There was once a building here; rain, wind, and the changing environment have worn its structure down, virtually hiding it from sight. The majority of it is buried under layers of sediment. What's left above ground doesn't give much indication that it was ever a building at all.

There's no reason to worry, though. That's what the experts are for.

They've started excavating, you see. Something to do with an unusual incident dating back hundreds of years, involving a flood that appeared, and vanished, almost overnight.

Perhaps you are familiar with it?

No matter; you will be soon enough.

Today they've brought in the heavy equipment. The building was a skyscraper, and it will take a bit of work to make it all the way down to the lower floors.

It's a good thing these people take their jobs seriously. They will make it to the bottom. I'm counting on it.

A _lot_ of people are counting on it.

I hope they don't run into any problems. Some of the support beams have been super heated and may make for hard passage. If they hit the right spot though…

Well… let's just say it's a long way down.

They'll still come. They think there's something interesting down here; probably washed up with the floodwater.

There's _something_ here, all right.

Oh, it seems that it's time.

They've started digging.

* * *

Another section of crossbeam was added to the growing pile. Takasaki Nobu, lead archaeologist and area supervisor, winced at the noise. 

It was a good thing the people funding the excavation weren't concerned about the roof. They had specifically said to take any means necessary to make it inside. What they wanted was an examination of the lower floors.

What _he_ wanted was to go back to his vacation; spend a little more quality time with the sand and water as opposed to his old friends dirt and rocks. He figured he was entitled to the break after four months in the field.

The department heads at the university evidently had other ideas. They had called him up three days into his trip, told him that it was a matter of the utmost importance, 'extraordinary historical documents', 'puzzling weather phenomena', 'immediately requiring research', 'bearing interest to the national environmental board'; the sort of babble behind a hastily thrown together project.

He had packed his bags, left the east coast, and headed straight over. Curiosity, he found, was a brilliant incentive.

Of course, now he wasn't sure exactly what it was they were looking for.

The team had a building. More accurately, they had the roof of a building and a fair amount of layers below the soil. Not in great condition, but wasn't that the point?

Takasaki had been led to understand, courtesy of the university, that city documents from when the skyscraper was in standing condition talked about some sort of rapid flooding. The strange part was that it had occurred only in and around the structures immediate vicinity. There was concern about whether there had (and still was) some sort of underground reservoir beneath the site that could lead to subsequent disasters.

He figured if that were going to happen, it surely would have happened by now. Not to mention, it was so far below the current surface it probably didn't matter. But hey, what the founders of the dig wanted, the founders of the dig got. It was their money.

So here he was, watching as various members of his team cleared away debris to give them a safe passage down. His daughter, whom he had totted with him from his hastily cancelled vacation, sat several feet behind him exploring in the dirt with a tool kit he had given her. He felt a sense of fatherly pride; he'd make an archaeologist out of her yet.

There was another resounding crash as more metal fragments were moved. Takasaki sighed. It was slow going.

"Daddy!" the excited voice of his daughter drew his attention. "I found something."

More metal, he was willing to bet. He'd humor her though; she was only six.

"Did you?" he asked, trying to keep his attention split between his team and little Takasaki Amaya. She rushed over, hands held out before her proudly.

"Look!"

Takasaki meant to spare whatever it was only a glance and send Amaya on her way. He didn't want her this close to the machines and the off chance of shrapnel flying off the dropped metal.

Her discovery wasn't metal though, he realized on sight. He plucked it gently from her hands, holding it up for closer examination.

"It's a pretty rock, isn't it?" Amaya asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her pigtails swung back and forth with the motion.

"It's not a rock," Takasaki murmured, turning the thing over between his fingers. A vague sense of unease settled over him.

It was a purple fragment the size of his thumb. It was smooth like glass, but after exerting a fair amount of pressure, he was sure it was too strong to be. That and the last time he had checked, glass didn't seem to… pulsate.

"You may have found something here," Takasaki said, patting Amaya's head absently. She grinned. "How about you grab your stuff and head over to the trailer for a bit. I'll call you when they're done moving the heavy stuff."

"Alright," she agreed, but otherwise didn't move. She looked at him expectantly.

Takasaki fingered the fragment once more, wincing at the sting the edge left on his skin. He could swear it was shifting color. Pulling his eyes away with some effort, he forced a smile for his daughter. "Mind if I hang onto this for awhile? I'd like to check something."

"Mm," Amaya consented. This time she did gather her things and go.

Some of his unease dissipated as his daughter slipped out of sight. Takasaki gave the fragment one last glance before slipping it inside his pocket. Later… there was always later. Now, he had real work to do.

* * *

Naru was talking, but he couldn't hear her. He was too far-gone. 

His focus slipped from the nothing to the reflections in the window. Naru's hand was resting on his cheek and he could see tiny droplets of blood beading out from the cut her fingernails had made. Funny, he hadn't even felt it.

Once, he might have pushed her away. Once, he might have run.

Once, his mind was whole.

He turned his attention back to the outside.

* * *

The farther down they dug, the more fragments they uncovered. 

Takasaki frowned. No one had been able to identify what the substance was, and so far there were no great theories about what construed the larger part of the whole. Discovery was part of the job; they had to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

Hard to do when you were missing a few integral parts…

Still, they had quite a collection spread out across a tarp on the surface. Takasaki hadn't wanted anyone fiddling around with the pieces and strictly told his team to stick only to work that involved getting to the bottom of the expedition. Literally.

Having something so unusual and not being able

_(willing)_

to work at determining what it was… it went against his instinct as an archaeologist. Somehow, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

The sudden commotion from the team's entrance into the site pulled Takasaki from his thoughts. As he made his way over, one of the senior field officers, Keiji, poked his head out of hole. His face was ashen.

"Takasaki, I think you better take a look it this."

They had made good progress in the several days they had been digging. Clearing their way through the top two floors, they had branched off tunnels in either direction to get an idea of the size of their excavation site. It was down one of the branch-offs that Keiji led him.

"We hit the wall," Keiji told him, ducking under a lantern rigged to one of the ceiling supports.

"Must be some wall," Takasaki replied.

Keiji glanced back over his shoulder. He hesitated slightly but only uttered a quiet, "yeah."

Takasaki followed suit as Keiji stopped. No words were needed; it was obvious what had Keiji so worked up.

Creeping forward, Takasaki squatted down next to the wall.

Several somethings were protruding from the framework, dark red despite the dirt that had been covering them. Sack-like bulges occurred every few inches, grotesquely warping the otherwise smooth surface. Each about a foot wide in length, the things clung to the wall like ivy up a lattice, branching out and disappearing through the layers of dirt at the top of the tunnel.

"Some sort of plant life?" Takasaki ventured.

Keiji shook his head. "I don't think so. Two stories down, no sunlight."

"Roots, then?"

"There's nothing topside that would have roots this big," Keiji said. He motioned to the floor. "Then, there's that."

He hadn't noticed before, being absorbed in whatever it was adorning their excavation site. Takasaki lowered his eyes… and frowned.

"Wha-"

"When we were digging, getting close to…" Keiji gestured at the wall, "we scraped one of those things. This came out. When we had enough dirt cleared away to make sense of it, I sent everyone down to the main shaft and got you."

The sense that something was wrong came back, stronger now. Hesitantly, Takasaki reached down and touched the small puddle that had gathered. In the dim light, it appeared black. Bringing his hand up for closer inspection, he realized it was actually red.

Red like…

"Blood," he murmured, rubbing his fingers together.

Takasaki and Keiji turned as one to the wall.

"You know what it looks like?" Keiji began.

Takasaki nodded, but couldn't force the words past his lips.

He didn't have to. They were both thinking it.

Veins.

* * *

Humans have an amazing ability to ignore what goes on around them. It never ceases to amaze me just what they can turn a blind eye to. That makes everything so much easier for my kind. 

Not in this place. It's impossible to disregard the unusual. No amount of self-denial can make it go away.

Having been trapped here, ignored and forgotten for so long, it's a welcome change.

They've finally noticed. Fortunately for me, they can't hope to understand. Not until it's too late.

I can hear them, you know. For a while I was a bit concerned (but not worried. _Never_ worried). They dug too far back and missed the shaft entirely. And after all the trouble I went through to clear their passage, too…

No matter. They're back on the right track. How… persistent.

I like that.

They're getting closer. Prepare yourself.

It won't be long now.

* * *

_Wrong, wrong, wrong…_

Takasaki cut the flashlight beam across the vertical channel. He tried to tune out the steady dripping from the opening he had made. Whatever the passageway was, the walls were _covered_ with

_(veins)_

the strange growth that coated the site perimeter.

After the previous day's discovery, Takasaki had ordered everyone to avoid the side tunnels. They would be changing their digging course to straight ahead, splitting up to have another group continue down where they had originally started.

It appeared they could scrap that plan; there was no longer the need to dig down. They had just found their proverbial express elevator to the bottom.

Avoiding the spreading

_(blood)_

puddle on the floor, Takasaki edged closer to the opening. The air inside was stale and sour, but the fact that there was any air at all was surprising in itself.

What could have possibly made such a passageway? It was too wide to be an elevator shaft. Shining his light up, he could see no cable wires. What he did see made him catch his breath.

It wasn't just the walls covered with thick red tendrils. The ceiling was a mass of tangled loops, twisting, arching, climbing, and meshing together to form what looked like a net.

Keeping out the dirt, Takasaki realized.

Using his hands to brace himself on either side of the opening, Takasaki leaned out into the shaft. Without a light, he couldn't make out a thing in the murky blackness. He closed his eyes, breathing in. He knew what normal digs entailed. Dirt and earth, no matter what the climate or location, had a distinct base scent underneath any unique ones. He was honed to it.

The air here…

By exposing himself more to the environment, Takasaki had to admit the air wasn't as stale as he first had thought. There was a hint of moisture to it that he had overlooked. It wasn't particularly uncommon for covered passageways to be moist or humid, especially if there had been heavy rainfall before the excavation. While there hadn't been any on this particular dig, the nature of the entire exploration could account for the moisture build up. If there indeed was an underground spring, it would make sense. Especially considering the cocoon

_(veins)_

webbing encasing the area.

There was another smell, an unfamiliar one, which bothered him.

The uneasy feeling, which had been building up steadily in his chest since Amaya had found that first piece of fragment, grew stronger.

Opening his eyes, Takasaki drew back and freed his hand in order to shine his flashlight down the shaft. As he suspected, the beam didn't reach all the way to the bottom. Instead of being drowned out in a seemingly endless pool of darkness, it was caught and reflected by the thick clouds blanketing the lower floors.

It looked almost like…

Fog.

Takasaki's grip on the flashlight tightened.

A sense of something, a feeling of probing, a gentle beckoning at the back of his mind…

Takasaki jerked and his balance shifted. He abruptly released the flashlight, scrabbling for purchase. His hand found and clenched the shaft wall; there was the unpleasant feeling of his nails digging into the webbing, a watery popping sound, the rush of warm liquid over his fingers, the smell of copper-

Below him, the flashlight beam cut through the fog, was enveloped by it, then disappeared.

He didn't need the light to know something was _wrong_.

Underneath his hand the webbing

_(not webbing, not some plant life, not anything **explainable**)_

pulsed.

* * *

He could not dream, because he could not sleep. He could not daydream, because he had forgotten the concept of days. He could not pretend, because he did not remember what imagination was. 

Sometimes though, he wondered. When his body was on autopilot, his mind wandered. In his head, he shifted through events he didn't quite remember, but still felt drawn to. Everything was broken and twisted, and he didn't know which pieces went where, or what order they fell in.

He always had to stop though. As soon as he saw the flames, smelt the blood, heard the screaming

_(helphimpleasei'lldoanything)_

he withdrew from the confines of his mind, fleeing to the safety of his shell of a body.

Sometimes, he thought it was better not to wonder at all.

* * *

Amaya knows she isn't supposed to be near the hole; her father told her so. He was very clear when he burst into the trailer, pale and sweating, telling her to 'stay inside, I have to make a phone call right away, and why not go play with your toys?' 

She knows she should listen, especially when she knows her father is frightened. She could tell when she heard him yelling at everyone outside. He said to pull up, get out of the hole right **now**; he would be making some calls…

She wonders what can be so important that he needs to keep making _phone calls_. Phone calls mean Something Big. A phone call was what made them leave from their vacation. She hadn't even gotten to swim in the ocean.

What Amaya wonders about more is why she wants to go outside even though he father said not to.

She doesn't just want to go outside… she _needs_ to go outside. It's like there is water roaring around her head, filling it with noise, and the only way to make it stop is to keep moving towards wherever she is being drawn.

Quietly, she closes the door behind her. When she turns towards the direction of the hole, the roaring recedes. She knows she must be careful, because if anyone sees her

_(everything will be ruined)_

she will be scolded.

Time is on her side. It is nearing dusk, and the sun's rays are fading. Shadows stretch long, and Amaya uses them for cover.

Something else is on her side as well, though she does not know it yet. It is for this reason that all the other excavators are tucked safely inside their trailers, unnerved by Takasaki's behavior. For them, this is fortunate. They are safe for a few more minutes from what is yet to come.

Amaya creeps behind the row of trailers, sights set firmly on her goal. Some force compels her to stop

_(the water; the waves are crashing and it's so **loud**)_

and head toward the tarp where the purple fragments are stored. They must go with her.

Unmindful of the sharp edges that cut her hands, she shoves the pieces hastily in the pockets of her overalls. They are pulsating.

The noise in her head grows again, deafening her, and she rushes towards the hole, jumping down with the lack of inhibition only children are capable of. If Amaya were older, she would take the time to use the small platform that can lower one person at a time, or maybe even the rope on the side of the hole. She doesn't, and she is lucky, so very lucky, that she doesn't smack her head on the platform as she zips by.

Her short legs can't absorb the full impact as she hits the bottom and she stumbles, landing on her backside. It could have been much worse if the hole were deeper than two stories, and it might have spared a lot of trouble to come if _something_ weren't watching out for Amaya. After all, two stories is still a long ways down.

The fragments poke through the cloth in her pockets, piercing her flesh. As blood is drawn, they pulse faster.

Amaya is listening to the roaring water, the waves dictating where she should go. She can't see in the dark, but she doesn't have to.

She follows the tunnel, going straight forward until she can feel the shifting current of air ahead of her. The noise in her head stops for the time being, and she gropes forward blindly.

There's something on the wall. It is slick, and warm, and _gross_. It shivers beneath the first hesitant touch of her fingers then begins a slow, steady, throb.

The fragments in her pocket pulse to the same invisible beat. Faint purple light seeps into the tunnel, pulsing, pulsing, pulsing. Amaya stares, mesmerized.

_But oh, daddy will be sad when he realizes I'm gone_, Amaya thinks, eyes focused only on the flashing light that is being emitted from the source nestled against her leg, bathing in her blood. For the briefest of moments, the hold over her mind, that pulling force, weakens.

Then it is back, the waves roar, and Amaya leaps through the opening that she sees between the lights flashes. She is falling, falling, falling, her pigtails are flapping, flapping, flapping, and it is a long way down.

There is a tearing sound past the waves and the rush of air in her ears. Something wraps around her waist, slick, warm and pulsing; though she continues to fall, she has more a sense that it is now a _controlled_ fall.

The purple light grows stronger, bouncing off the walls, off the red shivering veins, off the fog that now surrounds her. Amaya is swung from side to side, brought closer to the veins that reach out towards her. They are glowing too, she realizes. She stretches out her hands and the loose tendrils brush over her flesh, depositing their purple, shining, treasures.

She can _hear_ the beating now.

Her feet touch down on the ground and the thing around her waist lets go. The new fragments go in her pocket. By now, her hands are slick with blood.

The pull is guiding her and the roaring waves drown away her pain. Amaya kneels, crawling in the wet dirt. Her hands are stretched in front of her, feeling the ground. Searching.

She skirts the edge of a shallow crater. The purple light reflects over the white chips of bone.

Interesting, but that's not what she wants.

She gives a small wail of frustration, clutching her head. It feels like it will explode at any moment. If she doesn't find what

_(**it** wants)_

she needs, she fears it will.

In the crater, beneath the dirt, something glows. Amaya digs with her hands.

She is only a child, with a child's strength. It is wedged in firmly from whatever impact caused the crater in the first place. But Amaya is determined. Pulling, straining, yanking, she finally tumbles backwards. In her hands, she holds a curved piece of purple fragment.

This is what she

_(**it**)_

wants.

Amaya plunks down on the ground with no semblance of grace. She is only a tool and her comfort is not a priority. She empties the fragments from her pocket, spreading them out on the ground before her.

Her father always told her to put together the pieces of the puzzle. Everything would become clearer as the parts were put in their proper places.

That's exactly what she does now. It is not her alone that assembles the sphere, but it is her hands that are needed to get the pieces close together. The purple light grows stronger as more pieces are added, building the larger part of the whole. They snap together, crackling with energy.

They _want_ to be whole.

There is a moment, a single short breath in time, when everything stops. The final significant piece of purple fragment balances between Amaya's thumb and middle finger. Her hand hovers just out of reach of the sphere. The purple light dims between flashes. The veins on the wall halt mid-throb. The fog ceases to shift.

A drop of Amaya's blood snakes down her finger. It slows at the tip, gathering form, and slips onto the shard. Purple darkens, red spreads. Inside the not-glass, there is a flash of stars and of a world beyond.

One moment of calm before the storm.

The span of a single heart beat...

The piece joins the greater whole, and the world is bathed in purple.

Amaya shrieks as the sudden flash of light blinds her. The waves in her mind overpower her thoughts, and everything fades away. There is a brief glimpse of the ocean (which is silly because she's never even seen the ocean), a silhouette, and then she's running, running as fast as she can through the shallow water, arms stretching out, reaching for-

And then that thought is washed away as well, and everything that was Amaya is gone.

The purple light recedes and reveals a completed sphere, no bigger than a tennis ball. It doesn't look like much, at first glance. All this trouble for a knickknack.

Inside, clouds and stars drift by under the cover of a purple haze.

Amaya's body (for Amaya is no longer here, not in any real sense) lifts the sphere up. Its light casts her face in shadows, twisting her grin, unknowingly reflecting the soul of what is now inside her.

When her mouth opens, it is not a six-year-old girl's voice that emerges. This voice is deeper. Rougher. Angrier.

"Come," it says, holding up the Power Sphere of the Netherworld.

"_**Come and see**_."

* * *

He felt a sharp tug and withdrew from his mind, expecting to find Kazuya. But Kazuya was nowhere to be seen, and he hesitated. 

The tug came again, harder. This time it was accompanied by a voice.

"Come. _**Come and see**_."

It was like no voice he had ever heard before. He did not hear it with his ears; it came from within his head. Though it wasn't unusual to hear voices from there, he knew that this one was different. This one was not one of _his_.

Maybe, if he ignored it, the voice would go away.

He forced his eyes to focus. If he just sat and looked out the window, everything would be fine. Everything would just go away. He stared past his reflection, gaze pausing only slightly at the reflection of his eyes, and looked beyond. The nothing was always a comfort.

The nothing still swirled and shifted, but it was different too.

It wasn't just nothing; there was _something_ out there.

He touched the glass of the window, unbelieving. It was impossible.

_Why impossible?_ part of him that wasn't quite so far-gone asked.

He didn't answer. He didn't need to. He knew, and it knew, and they _all_ knew that there wasn't anything outside. He had been there before and there was nothing but pain.

A part of him that remained in his mind held up a piece to the puzzle of his memories as a reminder. Running, screaming, crushing weight, a thousand voices, a _hundred thousand_ voices, all crying out…

He cracked his forehead against the window and the image ghosted away, knocked aside from the sudden rush of pain. The glass shuddered but held.

He had sworn to never go outside again. It was dangerous out there, far more dangerous than in here, and maybe _here_ wasn't so bad after all.

His hand probed unconsciously at the freshly gouged skin of his neck, courtesy of Kazuya.

He turned to that dangerous sense, that little thing called 'wonder'.

He wondered what was in the nothing.

He wondered if Kazuya would notice if he slipped outside.

He wondered what part of himself he would lose next, how the walls would look soaked in his blood, how he could ever question whether _this_ was bad, awful, terrible, and how it was happening to him-

The tug became a caress and he could hear the sensuous sigh in his mind.

_Yes, yes, why don't you come and see?_ the voice asked.

Yes, why not?

He slipped out of his spot on the window ledge, stretching his sore muscles. A quick look out the door wouldn't hurt. As long as he didn't stray too far and could find his way back, he'd be fine. No need to worry – he hadn't made Naru cry, so Kazuya would come get him if he got lost.

When his fingers touched the doorknob, he didn't hesitate. Only a peek, one little look, what could it hurt? After all, every door here held some surprise behind it, and in the end didn't they all just lead to the same place? A place tinged with pain, sadness, and loneliness?

He cackled. No, they didn't lead there _in the end_. There was no end! That was the best part. He could keep on opening doors for eternity and never get anywhere.

Maybe this door…

It was black, but maybe, just maybe…

He stepped outside, for the third time in forever. One hand kept a firm hold on the doorknob.

_Just a bit further now_. Two parts caress, one part tug, all parts compelling.

He could make out the something, which was actually more of a large tear in the nothing. He laughed because, really, it didn't make much sense. Things had stopped making sense a long time ago.

It didn't make sense how he was walking towards the tear, either; he certainly hadn't meant to let go of the door, he didn't remember telling his legs to move forward, and he couldn't fathom why he was not screaming yet.

He stopped as a gust of wind rustled his hair. That was strange, because there wasn't supposed to _be_ any wind.

Surveying the tear, he stretched one hand forwards. The wind caressed his flesh and the voice caressed his mind with a single word.

_Come._

He did.

One step forward was all it took, and his body followed his arm

_(because, for the time being, his body was_ attached _to his arm)_

through the tear, which was shimmering, and then he was falling, down, down, down…

He couldn't see. It was dark, so very dark

_(come here and let mama fix you)_

and he panicked, reaching out, grasping blindly.

He felt a sudden burst of emotion, not from him but from someone else, and he turned towards it not questioning how one could feel emotion. All he knew was that he was falling and if he didn't slow down he would crash. He reached out for the feeling, clinging to its source like a drowning man. He felt it struggle but he held tight because he needed to **stop**.

Slowly, the resistance subsided, and he was no longer falling.

It was still dark (were his eyes even open?), but it was quiet and somehow peaceful, so he didn't wonder. He retreated to the place he went often, in his mind.

There wasn't anything else to do in the black void of nothing

_(something)_

and so he settled down, beginning to sort through the pieces of memory floating around his head.

* * *

Sekino Toki froze, the cup of tea still halfway lifted to her lips. 

Her husband looked up from the papers he was shifting through. "Toki?"

Throat suddenly dry, she tried to swallow. Her free hand stole away and rested against her stomach, pressing down ever so slightly. "Yukio… the baby…"

He was up and around to her side of the table in a flash. Toki could only stare at him, brown eyes wide, as he rested his hand atop her own. His fingers threaded through hers and tightened.

Heart racing, muscles taut, lungs frozen-

It was faint, but she felt the slight fluttering sensation resume in her belly. Toki took in a deep breath, the muscle tension subsiding.

Yukio reached up, taking away the cup she was still holding and placed it on the table. He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze before asking, "Okay?"

She nodded. "I just couldn't feel her there for a minute and with how much she's been moving lately, I just thought-"

"He's fine," Yukio said with a grin. It seemed a little strained at the edges. "Probably was just a bit tight when he shifted around."

With the familiar play-on-gender game resumed, the sense that everything was all right again solidified. It was probably nothing. Toki gave her stomach a reassuring pat and went back to her tea.

* * *

So many pieces… 

How was he ever supposed to get through them all?

He had to hurry. If he took too much time, Kazuya would wake him from his not-dream.

A chuckle bubbled up, not from his mouth but from his mind. What was time, when you had forever?

* * *

Some nights, Toki would just lay awake with her hands laced across her stomach. Part of it was that she couldn't seem to get comfortable. Too many blankets, too hot. Lose the blankets, still too hot. After several minutes, much too cold. Blankets back on, freezing. Then back to hot. It was the nightly cycle. 

The other part was the baby. In the past few weeks, the movement had declined significantly. She didn't know what that meant, but she didn't like it. The doctor had assured her that everything was still checking out fine, and to just keep coming in regularly for the duration of the pregnancy.

Still, Toki couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

* * *

He grabbed a memory floating by and tugged. Doors closing, the displacement of wind, someone screaming his name… 

That was important, he was sure.

He added it to the growing pile.

* * *

Toki had never heard of crushing someone's hand _after_ labor, but she was beginning to think it was possible. If not for Yukio's equally strong grip on her hand, she would have been feeling guilty. 

It wasn't even undergoing labor that had her on edge. Looking back through the haze of the last day, she thought that had probably been the easy part. This was worse, so much worse.

Nearly a minute had passed and she hadn't heard the baby cry.

Her grip tightened and Yukio squeezed back.

Toki's senses were on hyper alert. She could smell the faint odor of sweat, the sterilizing solution used for the hospital instruments, the blood adorning the blankets, and the too-strong aftershave of someone in the room. The light was as brilliant as a sun and really, that was all she could see because they had taken the baby over to the table…

Most importantly, she could hear. The low murmurs of the doctor and assistants, the sharp intakes of breath Yukio was taking, voices beyond the room, her own heart pounding… but no baby.

It was an eternity, and there was no way the baby could have survived after going that long without air, no way at all, and something inside her wrenched-

A sharp, piercing wail filled the room and Toki took her first breath as well.

* * *

Sekino Kado was six minutes old when he opened his eyes. 

Toki, who was busy inspecting his head and wondering if it was supposed to look so stretched, didn't notice. At Yukio's gasp, she dropped her gaze, wondering if he had stopped breathing and if the blankets were keeping her from feeling it. But no, Kado's eyes were open and that was certainly nothing to be alarmed about. Nothing at all-

The arm holding the baby began to shake.

_It's just the pigmentation working itself out_, she told herself, unable to look away.

The baby didn't take after either her or Yukio. Or anyone else for that matter. The last time Toki checked, people weren't born with gold eyes.

* * *

It was no longer peaceful. For the first time in a long while, it wasn't quiet. 

Itsuki turned away from the memories he was arranging. If he didn't want Kazuya to be mad, it would be best to leave. He could always come back and finish later. There was _always_ later.

He slipped out of his mind and opened his eyes.

It was bright, much too bright, and he couldn't focus. A shadowy form shifted, and he tried to make out what it was.

_I lost my eyes again_, he thought. _Sometime when I was _away, _he took my eyes._ _They're coming back, but they're not back _completely, _and there's nothing I can do about it._

Well, he knew how to fix that.

Itsuki retreated once more to the safety of his mind.

* * *

Sekino Kado was two months old when the doctor finally admitted something wasn't right. Maybe not wrong, but Not Quite Right. 

Toki's major concern was that Kado hardly slept. Half the time it was hard to tell, since he was abnormally quiet. He would lie still for hours, hardly even twitching, eyes fixed on the ceiling. If not for Yukio testing his tracking with a slow moving finger in front of his eyes, Toki would have sworn the baby was blind. He didn't cry for food, he didn't cry when he needed to be changed, and he didn't cry when he was fully awake. The only time Kado cried was when he slept.

He would drop off, toss fitfully to the point where she worried he would catch up in the blanket and smother himself, then wake up shrieking and crying. As far as Toki could tell, he wasn't hungry and he didn't need changing.

Her eyes had dark circles under them from the nights spent up, watching over Kado. They were nowhere near as dark as the one's under his eyes.

The doctor looked him over again. "And it's just sleeping that's the problem?"

_No, he's got eyes no normal person should have, he does a pretty good imitation of a log, and I think he might not be quite there upstairs_, Toki thought uncharitably. She rubbed her face and nodded.

"How many hours a day does he sleep?"

"No more than six," Toki said. The doctor raised an eyebrow. "He won't sleep more than an hour without waking up and screaming."

"Six," the doctor repeated. Toki just nodded.

Kado stared vacantly at the ceiling, unaware he was such an important topic of discussion.

"I've never heard of a baby sleeping that little," the doctor mused.

_Then fix him! Make him better!_ Toki wanted to scream.

"This isn't a common occurrence, so I'm hesitant to give him any medical sleeping aids at his age," the doctor said. "I can give you some pamphlets on helping babies sleep through the night. You, of course, can try the techniques out for any time of the day. Whatever gets the job done, right? There's nothing wrong with him physically, so just give it time. It can't last long."

Toki wondered.

* * *

Itsuki knew 

_(or thought he knew. Who could really say?)_

what had happened.

It was taking a while to put his mind back together, but he had enough pieces to know this much: the realization of what he had grabbed onto when he was falling made him feel ill. Worse yet was knowing that, given the chance, he would do it again if it meant getting away.

Had he really gotten away? How many times had he been given false hope, only to realize it was another product of hell's cruel sense of humor? How many times had he given in, only to be hurt when all was said and done?

Was the voice that beckoned him here real or another illusion? He hadn't heard it again but always, at the back of his mind, he could feel a gentle pull. He _wanted_ to be pulled, really he did, but his body just wouldn't move.

He was an infant. It was… a disturbing feeling. Helpless, lost, alone.

Mostly, he was just tired and afraid.

The thing that made him question above all else whether he was still in hell or not was his sudden ability to sleep. The damned did no such thing.

When Itsuki slept, he always dreamed. Dreamed about hell, and the countless horrors he had endured.

He always woke up screaming.

* * *

Sekino Kado was three years old when he talked for the first time. 

Toki and Yukio had suspected he was mute. There had never been as much as a 'da' or 'ma' out of him. The only noise he ever made was that awful screaming when he would wake up.

And so it came as quite a surprise when he said, quite clearly, "don't give me those any more."

'Those' were the sleeping pills Toki had picked up from the doctor a week previous. For the first time in his life, Kado had slept more than an hour in one go. He had actually gotten a full night's sleep.

When he had woken up, it had taken over an hour for his voice to go hoarse enough for the screaming to die down.

With the skin under his unusual eyes so black, Toki hadn't thought there'd been another choice other than to keep giving him the pills. He was abnormally pale, his eyes were often vacant, and he didn't do much other than listlessly stare off into space. She thought maybe sleep would fix her little boy.

Sleep wouldn't fix his eyes though. Nor would it fix the unnatural green shade of his hair. She just didn't understand…

No more than she understood how he could suddenly speak coherent sentences.

Toki dropped the pill bottle in her surprise. "Kado?"

He tilted his head and looked at her, pursed his lips as though about to speak again, then turned to the pills that now sprayed over the carpet.

"Why don't you want to take them?" Toki asked, as though she honestly expected an answer. She was struck by the sudden urge to laugh. Why not? Her life had been a surreal daze ever since Kado was first born.

She wasn't disappointed.

"Because then when I dream, I can wake up."

* * *

_Blood rolls down his face like tears and he is helpless to turn away. He wants to, but Kazuya is holding his head firmly in place, making him watch._

"_You should have watched this when you were alive," Kazuya tells him. "You might have learned something."_

_He can't close his eyes, he can only watch. Watch as the fox demon is beheaded. Watch as the body of the young girl is violated then decimated. Watch as the bombs drop on cities, killing thousands. Watch as the children scream. Watch as the black rain falls. Watch as the fires spread and the demons burn. Watch as the girl is locked away and forced to cry. Watch as the boy falls. Watch as the man fires his gun and the woman takes the bullet._

_Watch it all, see it all, know it all_

"_The cruelty of human beings darkest sins," Kazuya whispers. "And of demons as well. Because we're all alike, don't you know that? Everyone deserves to die."_

_He whimpers._

_He watches as the scene changes and this time it is Shinobu doing the beheading, Shinobu's blast killing the demon, Shinobu's hand delivering the final blow._

_He doesn't want to see any more._

_He might be dreaming, he might be awake, but no matter what he is in a nightmare he can't wake from._

* * *

Sekino Kado was four years old when he cut off his finger. 

Toki had been napping. Kado had another bad night and she was tired. They had gotten as used to the cycle as they could, but sometimes, when the screaming went on and on and on…

She was going to send him to a therapist, she had decided. There couldn't be any harm in trying. None of them could continue on like this…

It was a dripping sound that woke her from the dream that the Sekino's were just another ordinary family, with an ordinary boy, and everyone had regular sleeping patterns.

Funny… Yukio had fixed the kitchen faucet days ago.

Toki roused herself enough to glance through the entrance from the living room into the kitchen. She couldn't _see_ the tap leaking from here, but she never claimed she had eyes like a hawk.

What she did see was splatters of red on the white tile of the floor.

She was up from the couch like a shot. Inside her chest, her heart clenched painfully.

There, standing in the middle of the kitchen, was Kado. His left hand was held out before him, and he stared at it as though it held the answers to all of life's great mysteries. In his other hand, he held a stained knife.

Toki couldn't help it. She screamed.

Kado looked up, unmindful of the blood pouring out from where his pinky finger should have been.

"I had to make sure," he said, when Toki paused for breath. "I had to cut it off to be sure."

"Put down the knife, honey," Toki said. She was amazed at how calm she sounded. Inside her head, she was still screaming.

Kado looked surprised for a moment before placing the knife gently on the counter top. He resumed the inspection of his hand.

Toki walked on autopilot, grabbing a dishcloth and wrapping it around Kado's hand as tightly as she could. He looked slightly annoyed at the fact but didn't protest. Leading him to the wall with the phone, she stepped over the small puddle of blood that had gathered on the floor.

She ignored the finger that lay in the middle of the puddle,

_(his finger, god, it was his _finger_, it was on the floor, and what the hell did he have to be **sure** of, what the hell was **wrong** with him!)_

not thinking to put it on ice, not thinking about whether it could be reattached or not, not thinking of anything at all except calling Yukio at work to drive them to the hospital.

* * *

Awake or dreaming? Life or death? Real or illusion? 

Itsuki wasn't sure.

When he looked in the mirror, it was how he looked _before_ reflected back at him, albeit younger. But, if he looked close enough, he could still see the part of him that was damned.

His finger traced the face of his reflection. His scar was gone.

He could never be sure. That was what plagued him. Never really, truly, sure.

Unless…

The living couldn't regenerate what they lost. They didn't make themselves whole, just to be killed again and again and again.

There was one way to be sure…

* * *

Sekino Kado was four and a half years old when he began seeing a therapist. 

Toki and Yukio sat next to each other, hands intertwined. They had never held hands much before Toki had gotten pregnant; now it was a familiar comfort.

They watched and they listened.

"What made you use the knife? Were you angry?" the therapist asked.

"No," Kado replied. "I just had to make sure this is real."

"What's real?"

He gestured to the room with one small, pale, hand. "This. Everything."

"Why wouldn't it be real?"

Kado only smiled at that and Toki felt a chill race up her spine.

* * *

It had been months, and his finger hadn't grown back. Still, Itsuki questioned if that proved anything. 

Time, in hell, was non-existent. Just because there were suddenly watches and clocks and digital displays didn't prove that time was _real_.

He had never been able to tell how long regeneration took when he had no source of time to go by. There was no telling now, either.

It would grow back, because they always did, and Kazuya would come and find something else to remove, something more painful, and he would hide in his mind that was shattered and broken, and it _couldn't_ be real…

Itsuki's smile was merely an echo of his agony.

* * *

Sekino Kado was five years old when the world burst into flames. 

Yukio was weeding and Toki was watching him from the shade of the porch. It was only the two of them outside since Kado had holed himself up in his room. They had long since learned to leave him to his own devices.

Toki took a deep breath, looking up at the sky. She needed to see the sun to remind herself she wasn't trapped in a nightmare. Just another beautiful day in the surreal world.

Everything fell apart in the span of a few seconds.

From inside the house, there was crackling, a loud pop, and the sudden roar of an explosion. The porch shuddered violently, and somewhere there was the sound of glass breaking.

It didn't register right away that it came from _her_ house. Toki stared at Yukio, only distantly aware of the smoke billowing from the window in her peripheral vision. She was frozen; it was all just a bad dream and she would wake up any moment. Yukio wasn't really rushing by her, running into the house that was on _fire_; no sane person would run into a _burning building_… He was screaming something too, like some kind of movie hero. That was strange because he wasn't an actor, wasn't even _real_ if it was really a dream, and what was he screaming, anyway?

"_**KADO**_!"

It wasn't a dream.

Toki pulled herself up and half ran, half stumbled behind Yukio into the house. The world was tilting, or maybe _she_ was tilting, and it was hard to see because the smoke was like a blanket, and it was hard to breathe-

She could hear Kado coughing and the world was suddenly straight again.

Yukio was coming up on the door to Kado's room, but he didn't slow. Smoke was curling out from the door, tendrils of it caressing the wooden frame, and for a moment it seemed to wrap around Yukio's foot. Then, his weight was thrown against the door and it shuddered, tipped in its frame, held-

Toki rammed into it, shoulder first, and it collapsed inwards.

Kado was a shadow in the smoke. Behind him, the far wall (which wasn't a wall, not any more) burned.

It was strange, Toki thought, that she could see the street through Kado's bedroom.

Yukio didn't seem to be concerned about that little detail though. He had Kado hefted up into his arms, and then he was pulling Toki along by the wrist back the way they had come. She could only stumble dumbly behind him.

Outside, Yukio released her and gave Kado a little shake. His head flopped back and forth like a rag doll.

"Are you okay? Kado? _Kado_!"

Kado blinked bloodshot gold eyes at him. Toki could almost _see _how he snapped back to himself. His eyes were suddenly wild and his mouth pulled down into a grimace. He began to shake.

"We have to go. We have to go _right now_!"

Writhing like a snake, he freed himself from Yukio's hold. Toki was still functioning a few steps behind. When Kado grabbed her wrist, she followed his lead as easily as she had Yukio's.

He was talking, she realized. Babbling nonsense about how they were going to come for him and take him back, and no he wasn't going to go, he'd _never_ go back again.

_My poor boy is disturbed_, she thought as the small stump of what remained of his pinky finger rubbed up against her flesh.

For the first time she was afraid not for her child… but _of_ him.

* * *

His body was weak, human, but Shinobu had been human too. 

_Yes_, a part of him sneered. _He was_._ And he's the reason why we're stuck in this body now. It's all his fault._

_My choice_, another part whispered back.

It was an old, pointless argument. Itsuki shut the voices out.

Even if he was human, there was still a chance he could learn to use energy. Not the familiar comforting demon energy, not his beloved Uraotoko, not his shadow arms… but maybe spiritual energy.

He began to practice.

He would sit in his room, concentrating on the flow of power that was stored inside him. The air would crackle, but nothing would happen.

Itsuki tried and tried and tried, always with the same result: nothing.

_There's something I'm missing_, he thought as he sat with his legs crossed on the floor. _How did I use to summon the Uraotoko?_

_By picturing it,_ came the quiet reply.

That was right. By visualizing it, picturing it forming, becoming real, becoming solid…

In his mind Itsuki pictured a familiar figure, hands drawing together, closing, pulling back and forming the purple sphere-

He had stood while lost in thought. His hands were lowered to waist height on his right side, legs spread to brace himself. And there, in his hands, was a small golden ball of energy.

Spreading his hands farther apart, he focused on keeping it steady. It wavered, but did not fall.

He wasn't thinking any more. He was doing what felt _right_. Raising his right leg, he lashed out, connecting with the sphere. As he watched, it propelled forward. The wall exploded.

As smoke and dust wrapped him in a tight embrace, as the first wave of fatigue washed over his senses, as his muscles began to turn to jelly, Itsuki watched the flames lick the wall.

Was it likely the Spirit World would investigate the matter? Was his spiritual energy strong enough to trace? Would they come? He wasn't going to take any chances.

_Let them try_, he thought with a sudden viciousness. _Let them try and take me back. I'll never go back again._

The force that had beckoned him, guided him, pulled him all the while, sunk its claws in a bit further and settled down to wait.


	2. Chapter 1: Drawing Together

**Atonement **

_Chapter One – **Drawing Together**_

Kado was singing.

Toki shivered. She hated when he did that.

It had started years ago, after the explosion at the old house. Always the same song, always the same haunting voice, always the same words that she could never understand.

Yukio had told her the words were in English, though he couldn't translate the meaning. What she wondered was how Kado even _knew_ English.

She had toyed with the idea of asking him. Then, as she found herself doing more and more often, Toki simply let it go.

There was something irreversibly wrong with her son. Something no one could fix, something unnatural, something truly frightening.

It was wrong for a child to sing in a language he had no way of knowing, without ever hearing the song before.

It was wrong for a child to spend seventeen years as an insomniac.

It was wrong for a child to have permanent black circles beneath his blood-shot

_(golden)_

eyes.

It was wrong for a child to wake up from nightmares, screaming the names of people his mother didn't know, telling them to 'stop, please, don't hurt me anymore, don't _touch_ me anymore…'

It was wrong for a child to be paranoid about people searching, stalking, _hunting_ him.

It was wrong for a child to live with constant fears that his parents could not understand or hope to comfort, being isolated and alone, mutilating his own body. To be able to smile so vacantly, yet convey so much pain, terror, and madness.

It was wrong, Toki thought, for a mother to be frightened of her child.

Not for the first time, and most certainly not for the last time, Toki pressed her hands to her ears. She bowed her head low, towards her tucked up knees. Alone in the living room, Toki could temporarily abandon the duties of motherhood. She gave into despair and buried her face in the fabric of her jeans.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't block out the sound. The haunting melody echoed in her thoughts even when Kado wasn't singing.

The singing continued and Toki wondered how everything had fallen apart.

* * *

The words came easily; they always did. How many times had he heard the song? How many times had he laid, incapacitated, listening to the constant drone from anywhere and everywhere around him? How many times had he sung the unfamiliar words, not knowing their meanings? 

That wasn't entirely true. There was only one thing the song could be about. There was only one thing the music could possibly embody.

Hell.

Itsuki sang from habit. That was one memory that was clear enough.

It wasn't productive though. Perhaps it was time to practice.

* * *

The singing had stopped. When she heard the creak of the bedroom door, Toki righted herself quickly. 

Kado poked his head into the room, eyes obscured by the dark sunglasses he had taken to wearing. They did nothing to put Toki's mind at ease. The visible signs that something was wrong weren't gone, merely hidden.

"I'm going out," Kado said. Toki could only nod.

She listened to the receding footsteps. She counted the seconds until she heard the front door close. She waited until she was sure Kado was actually gone.

Toki let out the breath she was holding.

* * *

Itsuki watched as the golden sphere of energy collided with the tree, setting it ablaze. 

He lowered his leg, which still tingled from the remnants of spiritual energy, and began to run. Weaving between the trees, through the forest, away from the evidence that he had ever been there at all.

This was the way it was. This was the way it _had_ to be. Building up his energy so that, when the time came, he would have a fighting chance. Running away from the scene so that the Spirit World couldn't track him. Hiding and biding his time until Kazuya woke him up from this dream where truth and lies blended together in a way that he could never hope to sort out.

He could never believe he was free. He could never believe he was safe.

In hell, there was no such thing as freedom.

Itsuki left the trees behind him, slowing to a walk. The key was to not draw attention to himself. Always be a shadow. Always melt away. Never be discovered, never be caught, and _never_ be trapped.

_Shinobu caught you once, _came a whisper in his head.

_Stop saying that **name**_! was the screamed reply.

Itsuki absently rubbed at the stub of his pinky finger, ignoring the voices.

Say it wasn't a dream. Say it wasn't a concoction of hell. Say it _was_ real.

Did that mean Shinobu would be alive as well? Was it possible he had been pulled from limbo?

Itsuki stopped dead in his tracks. The voices fell silent.

What would **that** mean?

The voices came again and they spoke in unison. Their words overlapped, meshing together in a way that made his head ache.

_You'd have to find him. Make sure he's happy. Prove it wasn't all in vain._

_You'd have to kill him. Make sure he suffers. Prove it was all his fault._

He trembled. Too much, it was too much.

The pull in his mind strengthened, as it sometimes did when he was particularly confused or distressed.

_Not to worry_, said the voice that wasn't his own. _Soon. It will all be happening soon. You can have everything you've ever hoped for if you can only wait a while longer. _

What he hoped for…

He just wanted peace. Peace, quiet, and freedom from the unknown. Yes, that would be nice.

There was nothing he could do but wait. For awakening, for death, for _something_ to end the constant fear.

Itsuki put one foot in front of the other and began moving forward.

* * *

It was a different type of pull he felt. 

Something was drawing him near and he was helpless to resist. A moth to the flame. He should have been afraid. He should have been trying to fight it. He couldn't.

Itsuki veered away from the school, which had been his original destination, instead coming to a stop outside a small café. In the midst of the morning commute crowd, a man stood waiting.

When he raised his eyes, Itsuki understood.

He had seen those same eyes staring back at him from the mirror countless times. They reflected what only the damned could understand.

Windows to the soul…

Portals to hell.

Hands shaking, Itsuki reached up and removed his sunglasses. It disturbed people to see the golden irises, the red that should have been white, and the dark indentations below his eyes. It also drew unnecessary attention.

None of that mattered. Not right now.

"You were there," the man said.

Itsuki nodded.

"I was called here," the man continued. "I thought I was alone. Funny, that."

"Why _are_ we here?" Itsuki asked, voice not entirely steady. He wasn't talking about being in front of the café, or meeting by not-quite-chance either. He was sure the man knew it as well.

The man gave him a severe look. "Does it matter? We're here and not _there_. That's enough for me."

Itsuki could only stand frozen to the spot as the man, hesitating only a moment, clapped his shoulder, whispered a vague 'be well', and disappeared into the throng of people.

What… 

Itsuki clutched his head, jerking back so that he was further away from the bustling activity on the sidewalk. A few passersby shot glances in his direction as he leaned against the café wall for support. His mind was whirling too much to realize.

What does this **mean**! 

He didn't know.

* * *

"He's getting worse." 

Toki placed the cup down on the table with shaking hands. Hot tea spilt over the rim, scalding her finger. She stared at it in wonder.

Yukio stood, wet a dishcloth with cold water, then knelt beside her. He gently pulled her hands away from the cup and tended to the burn. She didn't notice.

"I heard him talking to no one the other day," Toki said at last. "In his room. Having a one-sided argument. Isn't that the strangest thing?"

Yukio looked up from what he was doing but said nothing.

Distantly, Toki wondered when he had started to look older than his years. When had he gotten so grey? Where had the lines around his eyes come from? Why did he look so tired?

When had she gotten the same way?

"And he's so jumpy," Toki continued. Her voice was mild, as if she were discussing some mundane triviality rather than her son. "I shut the cupboard and he nearly jumped out of skin. He was standing by the knife holder. You know what he did? He had one out and in his hand so fast, it was like magic."

She gazed down at her hand. A spot of red peeked out from beneath the cloth.

"It scared me," she confessed. "It scared me so much."

Toki only realized she was shaking when Yukio stood to embrace her, holding her steady. Still, he didn't speak. Toki knew it was because there was nothing comforting he could say that wouldn't be a lie.

It wasn't okay and it never would be.

* * *

More and more, he felt the pull. It seemed everywhere he went the damned were coming together. Talking, massing, waiting. 

Did that mean he really was free?

_Dreaming, waking, reality, fantasy, truth, deception, life, death._

He didn't know. He was a drowning man, struggling against the conflicting emotions, and nothing was concrete enough to grasp.

_There's one thing that has always been real_, a part of him said quietly.

_No. Absolutely not,_ another part hissed.

It was the one thing you could hold onto in hell to keep you sane! It was the reason why you were in hell and the reason your mind is broken now! 

**_Shinobu_**, one voice hissed, one voice sighed.

Itsuki wondered how it always came back down to Shinobu.

* * *

_He sits in the hallway, staring at the door. The color no longer distinguishes it from all the others. Now, the only way to find the entrance to his former haven is from the pile of ashes and splinters of wood heaped at its entry._

_He wonders why it never disappeared._

_Inside, he knows. The door is a reminder to him. Fuel for the fire that tears through his insides, burning him up._

_He touches the blood splattered over the doorknob. He remembers all too well. Grasping it with his useless hands, struggling in vain to correct just one more of his mistakes, being dragged away and hearing the screaming…. _

"_You can't take it back," Kazuya says from behind him. "It's your fault."_

"_I know," he whispers._

"_Now you really are deserving."_

"_I know," he repeats._

"_You killed him. I can help you repent for this sin, at least."_

He screams as the hand closes around his neck, pulling him over backwards. There is pain, but this once he welcomes it.

Itsuki's eyes opened and he jerked upward, cutting off the beginning of a scream. It was several minutes before he could catch his breath.

It wasn't the dream that woke him; it had been mild as far as his living nightmares went. No, something else…

In his mind, there was the roar of waves. He clutched his head.

_Now_, soothed the voice at the other end of the pull. _It's time_.

Time.

Time for what?

Time to go.

Go where? He didn't know. He was needed though, and who was he to deny the force that brought him here to

_(come and see)_

do _something_.

There was something else he had to do before he left.

It was the least he could do after what he had done. Maybe explain…

He let out a shrill laugh before clamping a hand to his mouth. Explain _what_? That another had to die so he could live?

Ludicrous.

Itsuki searched around his room, finally tracking down a pen and paper, and began to write.

* * *

When Toki woke, the sun was already high in the sky, streaming its rays through the bedroom window. Yukio slept peacefully beside her. 

She stretched, enjoying how refreshed her body felt. It seemed like such a long time-

Toki froze. She hadn't heard Kado scream last night.

Could it be the nightmares had finally stopped?

Somehow, she doubted it.

She was out of bed and in a bathrobe before the full-fledged panic could truly grip her. Once she reached Kado's door, she didn't bother to knock before throwing it open.

The bed was unmade, Kado was nowhere to be seen, and a single piece of paper occupied the pillow.

Toki reached for it with unsteady fingers.

It didn't take her long to read the short message scrawled in Kado's handwriting.

_I'm sorry you never knew your son. Thank you for everything. Goodbye._

It was signed in a name that wasn't her son's, but Toki was steadfastly not thinking about that. She was busy letting out an ear-piercing wail that had spent the last seventeen years building up inside her chest. She could hear Yukio stirring in the next room and knew it wouldn't be long before the police would be called and the search would be on, and maybe she'd be able to bring her baby boy back…

If Toki were true to herself, she would acknowledge the nagging voice in her head telling her she was never going to see her son again. A mother knew, a mother _always_ knew, even under all the layers of hope piled on top to keep the bad thoughts and doubts and fears away.

If Toki were true to herself, wouldn't she also admit (though she would die before she said it aloud, or even dare to fully _think_ the idea through) that she was the slightest bit relieved?

* * *

Have you ever wondered, even for a moment, what it would be like to be someone else? 

Have you ever watched a movie and imagined it was you fighting the villain, taking down the monster, then saving the day?

Have you ever read a book and thought it would be great if you lived in this land or era or country, were a king or knight or private eye, and had wealth or a title or a reputation?

Have you ever wished you could escape the ordinary, have an adventure, and live the fantasy?

I have.

Compare real life to fiction. There's no contest.

Day in, day out, it's all the same. Go to school, study hard, work to pass your entrance exams. Continue with your education and get a job that will make your parents proud. Spend your whole life trying to live up to the expectations of being someone great and fitting into the societal norm. Dream of money, a family, and the ever-so-distant day when you can pass on the business or position to the next generation of busy little workers.

When you think about it, it's not much to look forward to.

Fourteen years. That's how long I've been molded to the ideals of what a person should do, should accomplish, and should partake in life. I've always felt like something was missing. What can you do, though? I've always gone through the motions, even if my heart hasn't been in it. Study, make the attempt, and try not to let lower than anticipated marks get you down.

Not lately. Even just sitting in the classroom has become too much to handle. That might explain why I'm sitting up on the school roof, just watching the sky. I'm missing first period, cutting class for the first time in my life, but that's okay. I have some things to think about.

Things like the strange dreams I've been having lately.

It isn't really unusual for me to dream I'm someone else. No, the strange thing about it is that I don't think they **are** dreams. They're much too real.

Just thinking about it, it sounds crazy. If they aren't dreams, what are they?

They almost seem like memories.

I'm always the same person - a boy who can't be that much older than me. Muscular, short black hair, brown eyes. We don't look all that different, though he usually looks more than a little scraped up.

When I'm him, or he's me, or however it works in dreams, there's nothing boring or monotonous about it. A new day, a different opponent, a different goal to work towards. I've fought in an arena against a man with skin as hard as a rock. I've spent hours upside down, balancing all my weight on my finger, training my body for the battles to come. I've been chased through the woods by a semi-truck with no one driving. I'm not sure how that would even be possible, but it feels real.

For every adventure, for every dream-memory, for every moment I spend as this boy, it feels like I've finally found whatever it is I've been missing.

As all these scenarios happen, it's as though I remember them too. Sometimes, I know what's going to happen next. When the light at the end of the passage is visible, the ceiling will fall. When the knives are placed in the ground, the punches will fly. When the voice speaks, the change will come.

It's all like an extreme case of déjà vu.

Except I was never the one with the strong sixth sense. That was…

See? Thinking of 'me' and 'him' as one person seems natural already.

There are other people who are in the dreams too. A redhead who's always calm in the face of danger. A boy wielding a blade that looks as though its covered in black flames. A girl doing a pretty good imitation of a witch, only her broom is actually an oar from a boat. An old lady that's always yelling and ordering people around. Another boy with a blade, only this one looks like its made of solid light.

There's another girl, too. I can never see her face; I can only hear her.

She always says the same thing, over and over again. "Three years."

Three years until what? I don't know… but it's important. Somehow, someway…

It sounds crazy.

But at the same time… it isn't crazy at all.

Last night I had another dream

_(memory?)_

only it was different than the others. This one didn't feel like a dream _or_ a memory. It felt _real_.

There was a young boy there, maybe two or three years old. Only, I don't think he was _really_ that young. An illusion, much like how the dreams aren't really dreams.

I wasn't the 'him' of my dreams or the 'me' of reality. In fact, I don't think there was any physical representation of any part of me in the dream. Instead, the boy was looking _at_ me, and talking _to_ me, and the dreamscape was a giant television screen.

He said, "Yusuke, you have to hurry."

My name isn't Yusuke. It's only the name I hear in my dreams, in my memories, and now burning in my head like a brand.

I've heard the odd 'Urameshi' thrown in as well.

Urameshi Yusuke. It's not my name… but it feels _right_.

A dream, a memory, or neither, I didn't see any harm in replying.

"Hurry and what?" I asked the boy.

"Find the others. Come here as quickly as you can."

"I don't even know where 'here' is."

That's when someone turned on a switch in my head. If my brain were a hallway, it was as though all the lights were suddenly at full power and I could see all the doors. Not just see… but actually open them.

After that, I woke up. Trudged through the morning routine, not thinking about what was happening around me, but more on what the boy meant. Now I'm up here because there's one little problem…

I'm remembering things I've never even dreamt about, which is strange considering I'm wide-awake.

Like how that boy who isn't a boy is actually the prince of a place called the Spirit World. Like how I met him when I died after being hit by a car. Like how I worked for him in compensation for being brought back to life.

I could stay up here on the roof, watching the clouds pass by and skipping the rest of today's classes. I could pretend none of this ever happened and go inside, go to class, and act as though nothing has changed and I'm still running in the never-ending hamster wheel known as life.

Or I could go with my gut instinct that tells me I actually **am** Yusuke, that this prince really does exist and that somewhere, surely, there's trouble. That I can make a difference.

I believe it. More so than any of the ideals that have been drilled into my brain by parents, teachers, and classmates. _This_ is what I was born to do.

Find the others? The others in the dream; red hair, the sword boys, the girl I can't see, and the rest. They exist, I'm sure of it.

Come here? If the boy's a prince of the Spirit World, then I guess 'here' is _there_. I'll worry about that detail later. Maybe, in time, I'll remember exactly _how_ to get there.

Yusuke… I… had a lucky streak. Maybe that means I still have it.

The only way to know is to start walking and see where my feet lead me.

* * *

Years ago, he had tried to pinpoint exactly _when_ he was. The question of how long he had been in hell always lurked somewhere in his mind. It didn't matter, not when you really came down to it… but still the curiosity was there. 

Itsuki thought he should have learned to not let his curiosity get the best of him. It led to

(why_, mama?)_

trouble.

It didn't stop him from looking. For better or for worse, looking did him no good. Enough time had passed so that the calendar system was different. The dates meant nothing to him.

Things changed and life went on.

As he walked, his shadow stretching ahead of him in the early morning light, Itsuki became acutely aware that he didn't know _where_ he was either.

The more he walked, the further the pull drew him away from 'home', the greater the feeling of familiarity became.

Had he been here _before_, when he was alive?

Or was he just going in the right direction?

If he was supposed to recognize the area with its numerous little shops, he was doing a poor job of it.

He passed a rundown food store, abandoned at the early morning hour. That store didn't interest him in the slightest. It was its neighbor that caused Itsuki to stop.

There was an impatient tug in his mind. The voice didn't speak; it didn't have to. He got the gist of it. _Don't stop, what are you doing, hurry up, things to do, places to go, people to see._

Itsuki fought back a giggle. Time. It always came down to time. People really needed to learn the concept of 'forever'. No one would ever be impatient again.

He looked up at the sign above the window. The characters read 'Óshiro's Pawn Shop'. Below it, a smaller sign read 'closed'.

The window wasn't barred.

He spared a moment to shoot a quick glance up and down either side of the sidewalk, verifying there wouldn't be too many witnesses. The early morning hour was on his side; there was no one in sight.

Good.

Itsuki eyed the glass, contemplating on whether or not to use his spiritual energy to break it. The chance of discovery would increase and probably wasn't worth the risk.

Especially considering he didn't even know what it was he was looking for.

Something. Always something. Just out of reach.

Smiling grimly, Itsuki raised his elbow. No hesitation, no time to think, no consideration of the pain. He struck forwards, putting all his upper-body strength behind the blow. The glass shattered and stinging pain registered in his arm.

Covering his hands with the sleeves of the jacket he was wearing, Itsuki swept aside what glass he could. When the area was clear enough for his liking, he hauled himself up onto the window ledge. There came a crackle of shards he had missed being crushed beneath his boot; the noise seemed amplified in the otherwise silence. Quickly, quietly, carefully, he slipped down into the depths shop.

It was dim. Streams of morning light from what had been the window ghosted through the cluttered interior, illuminating the dust stirred up from his movements. Itsuki paused, inspecting his elbow to assess the damage while he had the light to do so. The jacket had helped shield him from serious injury. No glass shards remained imbedded in his skin; he had sustained only shallow scrapes and cuts. Blood stained through the tears of the jacket sleeve, but he paid it no mind.

It was nothing compared to what Kazuya had done.

The flash of the knife blade, the explosion of pain in his shoulder, the sawing, sawing, sawing… 

Itsuki shook his head, surveying the dusty establishment.

Wooden shelves stretched the length of the store. The aisles between them granted barely enough room to turn around. The occasional heap of boxes stacked on the floor didn't help matters.

With his feet rather than his mind guiding him, Itsuki strode purposely to the back of the store. He ignored the shelf contents; they weren't what mattered.

What _did _matter was the glass display case at the back.

He wiped away a layer of grime so he could catch a better glimpse at the case's contents. This was what he needed.

_Before_, he had seen these on television. He knew he had encountered them once or twice during missions, but those memories were foggy. In his dreams that weren't dreams, Kazuya held his head while he watched them in use. Hurting, wounding, killing. Brutally quick or agonizingly slow, resulting from a mix of luck and skill.

_How quaint_, whispered one voice.

_Nowhere near as strong as spiritual energy… it's useless_, remarked the other.

_On the contrary_, Itsuki mused as he searched the case for a lock. It would draw much less attention from the Spirit World by using such a weapon. Human authorities might take more notice… but they weren't the real enemy.

He couldn't risk capture before he was pulled all the way to his destination. It would suffice until then.

The lock was sturdy but a small (and, with any luck, undetectable) amount of energy from his hand took care of that problem. It fell to the floor, a mess of melted metal, and Itsuki pulled back the panel. Reaching inside, he claimed his prizes.

In one hand he held a handgun. Smooth black handle. Ribbed barrel engraved with foreign letters. Muted silver beneath the dust coating. He couldn't specify the type, but he knew enough to be able to open the gun's cylinder.

In the other hand, he held the small box housing bullets. He opened the lid, gingerly picked one up, and slid it into one of the empty chambers of the cylinder.

A slide of metal on metal…

A perfect fit.

Removing the bullet, Itsuki snapped the cylinder closed. He shoved both box and gun into his coat pocket, before turning back the way he had entered.

In his head, there was the crashing roar of a wave and he knew the impatience was growing.

Quickly, quickly. Never be discovered. Never be caught. Never be trapped.

He hesitated.

Without knowing quite why, he reached back inside the glass case and scooped up another item. The weight of it gave him pause, and it took a few moments before he could maneuver well enough to make his way through the cramped aisles. Itsuki rushed to the window and when his feet touched the cement of the sidewalk outside, he fled.

The sound of the waves diminished and the harsh tug on his mind became a caress. He was back on track and all

_(nothing)_

was well.

Itsuki knelt, transferring the gun from his pocket to his boot. He didn't waste time investigating how to use the safety; it was empty.

Melt away, don't be noticed, don't draw attention to yourself.

He straightened, examining the other burden he had grabbed during his hasty retreat. Beneath his coat would have to do.

There weren't that many places to hide a long sword.

* * *

It is dawn, and the time has come. 

He leans against the doorframe, looking into the bedroom. The blinds are open just enough to illuminate the bed and its soul occupant.

She is sleeping, unaware of what is happening. What has _been_ happening.

She doesn't know about the strange dreams that have been haunting her brother lately. She doesn't know his sudden surges of over protectiveness are results of these dreams. She doesn't know why he keeps asking her if anything strange has been happening to her lately, if she's been sleeping well, and does she ever dream she's someone else? She doesn't know that he doesn't _believe_ these dreams, but he believes enough to want to stop whatever is happening to him from happening to _her_.

She doesn't know that in his dreams she is there as well, only horrible things have happened and her life has been filled with pain and sadness. She doesn't know that in his dreams he will do anything, **_anything_**, to keep her from knowing the truth.

She doesn't know he dreams of falling, falling, falling, or of searching, searching, searching, or of a gem that is always gleaming, gleaming, gleaming.

She doesn't know that in his dreams he is a killer, and that is another reason why he never wants her to _know_.

She doesn't know why he's been staring in the mirror, more and more often, as though he can't believe his own reflection. She doesn't know why he stares at their parents as though he's never seen them before. She doesn't know…

She doesn't know just how far her brother is willing to go to protect her.

She sleeps undisturbed, dreaming dreams that aren't of a past life. Not yet, at least. For now, the names Tarukane, Sakyo, and Toguro mean nothing to her. For now, the Black Black Club is just a funny sounding string of words in a foreign language. For now, her twin has been beside her all along and she doesn't need to search for him.

She doesn't remember. If all goes well, she never will.

He takes one last look before closing the door.

* * *

Itsuki still walked with no idea of his destination. Around him, people went about their lives, paying him only a passing glance. 

The farther he traveled, the stronger the tug in his mind became.

Closer… ever closer.

As he passed a small park, something made him stop.

That _other_ pull, and the smell of smoke.

No, not the smoke, exactly.

The fragrance of the cigarettes...

Itsuki frowned. Why was that familiar? It wasn't as though he hadn't seen anyone smoking on his journey. But these…

On a bench, two people sat with their backs towards him. A man and a woman. Thin plumes of smoke rose up above their heads, unfurling in the air until dissipating beyond what the eye could see.

Familiar…

For a moment, Itsuki receded into his mind, frantically sorting through memories. Nothing, nothing, _nothing_! He needed more to go by.

The man was wearing a suit.

The memory leapt out at him. Red chairs. The faint smell of smoke. A rustle of fabric.

"_How does it feel to pay for his mistakes?"_

Itsuki snapped out of his mind so quickly that it left his body reeling. Hatred was compelling him and this time, nothing would get in his way.

_Kill him_, whispered both voices.

Quick strides brought him around to the front of the bench. The woman paused, gold and black lighter poised, and looked at him inquisitively. One slender brown eyebrow rose.

Itsuki's attention was riveted to the man. When the head lifted and the blue eyes rose to meet his, he knew for sure. The scar was gone, but it was him.

"Sakyo."

Sakyo eyed him for a moment before turning to his companion. "Excuse me, would you?"

The woman waved her hand as though dismissing him. She went back to lighting her cigarette.

Itsuki's hands trembled and he could hear the faint crackling of energy. No, that wouldn't do at all. No attracting unnecessary attention. Of course, he wouldn't need spiritual energy to kill Sakyo. He wouldn't even need the gun.

Sakyo was about the only person Itsuki was sure he could kill with his bare hands alone.

"I'm not used to being addressed by that name," Sakyo said as they walked across the park. "You'll have to excuse my manners, but who exactly are you?"

That made Itsuki pause.

Sakyo continued. "You must be one of _them_, but if you want me to go with you, I'm afraid I really must decline."

One of **them**…

_It wasn't the real Sakyo you met behind the door,_ came the tentative whisper, somehow audible over the chant of 'kill him' that echoed through Itsuki's head. _Just like everyone else… he wasn't real._

Itsuki's hesitation continued and, in the silent moments that followed Sakyo's statement, he got his first good look at the man's eyes. Beyond the blue, beyond the whites, it was…

"You're damned," Itsuki said.

"So are you," Sakyo replied. He extended both pointer fingers, then made a motion that drew his hands together in an over exaggerated arc. "There's a pull."

"And you don't know me." It was a statement, not a question. Itsuki knew the answer already.

Sakyo shook his head. "No. I don't remember much of my past life."

"That's a shame." Itsuki examined his hand, wondering how much force it would take to crush Sakyo's windpipe. "You don't understand why you need to die, then."

"That's all in the past-"

"And that excuses your actions, does it?" Itsuki snarled, reaching out and grabbing Sakyo by the collar of his jacket. He gave him a shake and Sakyo's teeth clacked together.

"I can't change the past," Sakyo said, grasping Itsuki's hands and trying to pry them away. "I don't know what I did, I don't know why I was in hell, but for whatever reason, haven't I paid **_enough_**? I'm just trying to **live**."

The strength drained from Itsuki's hands and they fell away, useless.

"I just want to live my life," Sakyo repeated. "I just want to find peace."

Wasn't that what Itsuki wanted as well?

_Remember the blood. Remember the carnage. Remember him looking over the balcony and **smiling**…_

"You feel it too, right? You hear it in your mind? The ocean?"

It took Itsuki a moment to process the abrupt change in topic. He nodded hesitantly.

"It's pulling us all. The damned. Trying to draw us together, bring us to do something. Well, some of us aren't going. Some of us just want to live and be free. This is our second chance. Why should we waste it in misery?"

"It's loud," Itsuki murmured, forgetting his bloodlust as a wave crashed over his thoughts. "How can you not listen?"

"I found a reason to live," Sakyo said, gesturing over to the bench where the woman still sat. "Maybe you should find yours."

When Sakyo turned and walked away, Itsuki let him go.

_There goes your chance… again_, grumbled one voice.

_He has a point, even if we don't want to listen_, whispered the other. _He started everything, after all. What would killing him achieve, anyway? The past is the past._

_Not quite, _Itsuki thought. Some things didn't lay to rest so easily.

The wave came again and Itsuki followed the pull. He'd go until he found his reason to do otherwise.

* * *

It all starts when Shuichi climbs up on the stool. 

He needs it to reach the cupboards because he is too small to do so on his own. One day, when he's a big boy, he'll be able to. He hopes that he's a giant by the time he turns seven. He could have a lot of fun with that. He'd never have to give up the swings at the park to the older kids again.

The stool creaks as he climbs on top of it. At the noise, something stirs in the back of his mind.

Stretching out his small arms, Shuichi reaches for the latch.

_The big can is in here_, he thinks.

That's when his hand freezes. Why would he need a can, big or otherwise? What he wants is a cup so he can have a glass of juice. He's supposed to use the cups because drinking out of the carton is one of those things that you Just Don't Do.

_You need it for your art project,_ his brain argues. _You know, the one that's due tomorrow?_

He's pretty sure there is no such project. Still, when he does finally get his hand to move again and open the cupboard, he half expects to see a can sitting on the shelf.

There isn't, of course. Only porcelain bowls, plates, and glasses.

At the sight of the plates, another thought strikes him.

Glass shards. All over the floor. Strewn everywhere like a battlefield. When he lands on them, it will hurt so much.

Shuichi presses a hand to his head.

There's nothing he can do because he is already in mid-fall, the floor is rushing up to meet him, and he thinks this is such a **stupid** situation to be in when he's four years shy of being free from this infernal body-

The world is starting to ripple around him, and it is as though another reality has been laid overtop his own.

Instinctively, he steps backwards trying to get away from the strange vision before him. This is a mistake. His foot comes down not on the stool top, but on empty air. Now, in both worlds, he is falling.

_Mother will catch me_, he thinks. _She'll catch me before I hit the glass and it'll be her arms that get torn up instead of me, and that's why I'll stay, that's why I'll trade my life for hers, that's why I'll meet-_

_No_, he thinks in the reality where there is no glass on the floor. _Mother won't catch me because mother is dead and I've never even known her._

In one world a desperate mother flings herself across the room, cradling her sons head in her arms to protect him from danger. In the other world, there is no one to catch the falling boy and he hits the floor hard.

There is no glass, there is no mother, and there is only the strange distortion of reality that he cannot comprehend.

He lies on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. His back hurts but he's quite sure nothing is broken. He wiggles his toes and his fingers to be sure. Everything is in working order and Shuichi pulls himself into a sitting position.

The split realities have not gone away. Double images blur before him.

"Are you all right, Shuichi?" his mother asks. There are glass shards protruding from her arms, blood trailing onto the floor, yet still she is smiling.

The wall in

_(the other)_

his world is his sole companion and offers no words of comfort.

This is the day everything changes.

* * *

The teacher is talking but Shuichi is daydreaming. 

He is sitting in class, but he is also sitting beside a hospital bed. His mother is talking to him but he can't focus on her words. The bandages on her arms are all he can comprehend.

Both the classroom and the hospital room shimmer and now he is somewhere else.

It is a

_(his)_

bedroom. A boy is lying on top of the blankets, tossing fitfully in his sleep. A bandage covers his stomach, red patches blooming against the white. Shuichi watches over him as he mumbles a name that sounds strangely familiar.

_Well, if he's not working for Yatsude, then maybe I can do something about that injury,_ he thinks, staring at the bandage that is so like the one that covered his mother's arms

_(oh-so-long)_

seconds ago.

_Just a misunderstanding_. Shuichi reaches into his hair, pulling out a seed. _This is **both** of us looking stupid... _

The room spins and he is back in the classroom. He realizes every pair of eyes in the room are focused on him; he has fallen from his seat and is laying on the floor.

_No more,_ Shuichi thinks. _I can't handle this any more._

He doesn't know where he really is. Like a mirage shimmering in the distance, he sees himself turning the seed into a plant and peeling back the swath of bandages. More solid and just beyond his reach is his teacher, asking him if he's all right.

_Oh, I'm far from all right,_ he thinks. _I think I've had…_

"**Enough**!" Shuichi screams, leaping to his feet. He runs from the classroom, leaving the room full of bewildered people behind. He wishes he could leave the other world behind too.

Or maybe he wishes he could _be_ in that other world. Maybe this world is the one that should be fantasy.

The thought rolls over in his mind even as he runs and leaves the school behind him. He is young, so very young, and at the tender age of six, fantasy seems better than reality.

He doesn't feel so young now. Sometime, in the last day, his mind has matured. Like both worlds, it also hovers in a state of 'between'.

_Run, run, run, Shuichi. As fast as you can, as far as you can, for as long as you can. Back to the place you were before. Where there's someone to catch you when you fall and where reality isn't split in two._

He runs, trying to find something he isn't even sure exists. At least, he thinks he's running…

Shuichi is being **_pulled_**.

* * *

Itsuki felt the pull at his mind, but he didn't move. 

_No time to stop and sightsee, you must come and see, you must, you must, you must-_

He had left Sakyo behind and walked. Walked and walked and walked and here he was. Not where the other voice wanted him to be, but there was a tug all the same.

And a swelling feeling of familiarity.

He was standing at the edge of a sidewalk, gazing at a rocky area across the street. It was strange, because the surrounding area was green with vegetation. A park, maybe? But why that one spot?

Not knowing quite why (_when do I ever know _**why** he thought), Itsuki crossed the street.

Past the trees, past the grass, out until he was standing on dirt and rock. He walked the perimeter of the area. It had to be at least half the size of the ground floor in hell.

What was so important about this spot?

Itsuki crouched near the ground, unmindful of the looks he was attracting from passersby. This was important. This was worth the risk of a little attention. The longer he stayed, the more familiar the surroundings seemed.

The angry roar of a wave in his head…

A voice calling…

Another voice. Moaning. Screaming.

"_Why? Why won't you **FIGHT ME**!"_

Itsuki heard it in his head as though he was standing right next to the speaker. In truth, he nearly was. He flinched backwards, staring at the ground in shock.

A memory of those same words tickled his mind.

"No," Itsuki whispered.

"_Why won't you just die? Why won't you let _me_ die!"_ The high-pitched wail echoed through Itsuki's head. _"Please, just **LET ME DIE**!"_

Of course. That was the problem; the voice's owner couldn't die. He was trapped inside his own nightmares for eternity.

Wasn't Itsuki partly to blame for that as well?

Sinking to his knees, Itsuki cradled his head. The older Toguro brother was as good as damned anyway. He would spend the rest of his existence as food for that cursed tree. Not dead… but he couldn't be called living, either.

Itsuki knew how that felt all too well.

Was that how they were drawn to one another? Damned souls, screaming for release?

Another wave crashed down, drowning out Toguro's screams. The sound brought Itsuki back to some semblance of his senses, and he fled.

Not towards the pull, but away.

* * *

My feet have brought me to the middle of nowhere. Well… that's not completely true; it's a town… but it's out in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe it just feels that way since I walked all the way here. 

All great adventures need to start _somewhere_.

I spent the trip here thinking. There are a lot of doorways in the hallway of my brain, and I don't think I've even made a dent. I've learned a few things, though.

The prince's name is Koenma. If he's related to who his name implies, then the whole business about the Spirit World suddenly makes a lot more sense.

That makes me wonder if I ever met Enma…

I think I'll find out eventually. These doors are tricky… I can't really navigate through them. I don't even think they're in chronological order. They're just… scattered. If there's some sort of pattern, I haven't found it yet. One day of sorting through it all isn't close to enough time.

I have an entire life to remember, and who knows how long to do it.

Now that I'm not mulling things over as intensely as I was, the pain in my legs from all that walking is starting to register. So is the fact I haven't eaten all day.

I came… kind of prepared. If you count prepared as bringing my school bag with me. I know there's the lunch in there I never bothered to touch because I was too lost in thought.

Thinking of only food now, I stop in the middle of the sidewalk and swing my bag off my shoulder. There aren't that many people out walking; either this isn't a busy district in this town, or everyone is planning on having an early night.

Fishing around, pushing books out of the way in search of the illusive lunch, something moving out of the corner of my eye makes me look up.

A little boy. He's turned the corner onto my street and is about a block away. He's walking away from me.

All of the sudden, food doesn't seem important any more. There's only one thing that matters; my mind is screaming at me to catch up with this boy. My feet aren't thrilled with the idea, but they've never been much in charge of making the important decisions.

I break into a run, holding the bag closed rather than wasting precious seconds trying to latch it. As I get closer, I realize something.

The boy has red hair.

A door swings open in my head and the witch girl is yelling 'Bingo, bingo, bingo!'

My feet must have realized complaining is useless; I'm sprinting towards him as fast as I can.

* * *

In one world, he walks down the street of a town he doesn't know, following an unnamed feeling, being drawn into a fantasy that is about to begin. In another world, he crouches on a rooftop. The full moon shines above him, illuminating the object at his feet. Not quite _reflecting_ in it, because the mirror reflects dreams, not reality. The time has come for him to trade his life for a wish. 

Only…

Only he isn't alone.

When the hand clamps down over his shoulder, Shuichi jumps and whirls around.

In both worlds, the same boy is beside him.

_Enough, enough, ENOUGH!_

* * *

"Kurama…" 

The name comes naturally and rolls right off my tongue. Along with it come the memories.

The Kurama I knew was a teenager. In that life, he must have looked like this when he was younger. The hair is the same brilliant shade of red, only much shorter than I remember.

He looks a lot more vulnerable, too. The poor kid looks like he's about to jump out of his skin. His green eyes are huge as he looks up at me, and he takes a step backward.

I instinctively tighten my grip on his shoulder so he'll stay put. If I've dreamed

_(remembered… **known**)_

about him, then he must be one of the _others_ I'm supposed to find.

Even if I know him, that doesn't necessarily mean that he knows _me_.

I imagine what this must look like. An older boy chasing him down the street, grabbing him, then calling him by a name that he may have never heard before. What am I thinking?

It _is_ him though… and if I remember, shouldn't he?

"Kurama? Kurama, it's me!"

He just keeps staring at me and I start to wonder if I've made a horrible mistake.

Seconds pass with us watching each other. Neither of us makes a move, though beneath my hands I can feel him shaking ever so slightly.

This wasn't how I expected it to be.

I… don't know what to do now.

Then… he opens his mouth and says just what I needed to hear.

"Yusuke…"

So much relief at just hearing a name…

I grin. I can't help myself. "Yeah. Yeah, it's me."

Kurama doesn't smile. If anything, he looks even more scared. He's shaking harder than before.

"Yusuke… you've got to make it stop."

I don't know what I'm supposed to be stopping, but I'm getting a bad feeling from this.

"It's okay, Kurama. What's wrong?"

For a moment, it seems like he can't put it into words. "Two worlds," he finally mumbles. "I don't know which one is real." He grasps my hands, still resting on his shoulders, and squeezes. I feel a twinge in the back of my mind and a mournful voice inside me wonders where his old strength has gone. He's trying to dislodge my hands. I could hold on…

He's only a child.

I let go, reluctantly, half expecting him to run.

Kurama doesn't make any move to leave. He only raises both hands to cover his face. He speaks to me from behind his self made shield.

"I've never met you, so how can I know you? You don't know _me_ so why are you willing to give up half your life? Why!"

Somewhere along the line, I think I missed something in this conversation. But somehow I know the right answer. I've said something like it before, after all. Not in this life… but in another.

"No mother should ever have to lose a child," I tell him. Squatting on the ground, I reach out and pull his hands away from his face. He struggles, briefly, before giving up and letting them fall limply to his sides. "I was there. I remember." And I do. "I was with you on that roof."

Kurama shakes his head, though looks a bit more in control of himself. "That's crazy."

"Sometimes crazy works," I say with a smile. This time he returns it, albeit a little shakily.

"Yusuke, what's going on?"

I can't explain what I don't know… but I'm willing to take a stab at it. Before I can, another voice speaks up from behind us.

"I'd like to know that too."

* * *

He's still trying to make sense of it all when the voice interrupts. It is a voice he knows. Though, like with Yusuke, he is sure he has never heard it in _this_ life. 

The boy is taller than Yusuke, dressed in jeans and a brown jacket. His black hair, while short in the front, falls to the nape of his neck in the back. In the sun's light, which is growing ever closer to the western horizon, his eyes seem to shift between brown and red.

He looks different, but Shuichi -_Kurama_- still recognizes him.

"Hiei!" he gasps. In the other world, neither Hiei nor Yusuke stands beside him now; he is with his mother in the hospital, once again. But he has not forgotten the memory from this morning, and the boy whose wounds he healed.

"You grew!" Yusuke blurts out. Hiei merely stares at them both as if they're insane.

As the world ripples and the duel images of his mother and Hiei waver, Kurama isn't about to argue.

Hiei purses his lips but whatever retort he has dies as he asks, "What's going on? Who are you?"

"Don't you know me? Us?" Yusuke asks, looking puzzled.

"Should I?" Hiei replies.

Kurama tries to keep track of the conversation even as the world changes around him again. He is outside a warehouse. While this imaginary world is the one he longs for, right now he wishes it would go away so he can concentrate.

A hard thing to do when his mind is split in two.

They're still talking and Kurama clutches onto his present reality with all he has. He wants to know what's going on, too.

He _needs_ to know.

"If you don't know us, why are you here?" Yusuke is asking. "Something's brought us together. That's how we were able to find each other. It must have been Koenma-"

Hiei snorts.

"Because there's something wrong in the Spirit World. Something he needs our help for. Why else would we be remembering all this? It can't be a coincidence we're standing here, together, right now."

Hiei shifts but does not respond.

"You have to be Hiei," Yusuke insists. "Haven't you had dreams? About being someone else?"

Brown eyes, no longer appearing red for the sun is passing behind the buildings, spark with something (recognition, maybe?) but Hiei replies with a flat, curt, "No."

He is lying, Kurama knows. He also knows something else. He knows because it is happening in that other where and when.

Sharp, stabbing pain.

His stomach…

In both worlds, he clutches the wound. In one it does not exist. In the other, he stares into Hiei's shocked face. The blade of the sword Hiei wields is encased inside Kurama's body. A handful of blood, the wounded look of betrayal, and then-

Yusuke is calling his name over and over. Hiei stares at him, rooted to the spot.

Kurama gasps. "You stabbed me."

Hiei flinches and now Kurama is sure he knows.

Yusuke watches this exchange, looking confused.

It's hard to think with blood spilling out of his body, with his insides a mess of agony, and with the fighting going on around him. Looking down at his hands, they are clean. No blood, because here he is not bleeding. It doesn't make it any less real.

"Here," he places his hand on the spot the wound

_(is)_

isn't.

"With the Ghost Slayer."

"That never happened." Hiei's voice sounds strained. "It was only a dream."

Yusuke gives a cry of triumph. "So you did have dreams!"

"Dreams aren't real," Hiei says with sudden vehemence. Kurama takes a step back from the sheer amount of anger laced in that voice.

Then Yusuke says the wrong thing. Or perhaps, Kurama thinks, maybe it is the _right_ thing.

"Is Yukina a dream?" Yusuke asks quietly.

Kurama knows the name. It was what Hiei was murmuring in his sleep.

Apparently Hiei knows it too, because his face has clouded over. He is shaking and Kurama realizes it is from anger.

He waits for the impending explosion, for there is nothing else he can do.

* * *

I think he's going to take a swing at me. I'm trying to figure out how fast I'll have to move to dodge the blow. 

A part of me is appalled, screaming to fight back. To land the first blow before I can be blindsided.

This isn't the time for that. We have other things we need to be doing. I need to make him realize.

"Are you going to pretend she isn't real? You want to, but you can't lie about that, can you?" I ask him. It would make sense. The name just popped into my head when I was trying to get him to admit the truth. Now I'm associating more things with the name. Yukina was… Hiei's sister. His reason for living.

No wonder he looks so mad. I've backed him into a corner, but I've got no choice other than to continue.

"Something's wrong with the Spirit World," I repeat. "Koenma must think we can help, otherwise we wouldn't remember. If he has a problem, we have a problem." I seem to recall something about Enma's anger being capable of causing great natural disasters. If that's true, I can only imagine what a real disaster over there could do. "So let's help."

At last, that seems to get through to him. Hiei is still stiff but some of the anger seems to have drained away.

"Of course," Hiei murmurs. "Then that means all we have to do is stop whatever it is that's going wrong and then-"

"Then we can go back," Kurama breaks in, sounding dazed. I almost forgot about him. Though, looking at him now, I wonder how. In the last few minutes he's gotten awfully pale.

Hiei's mouth snaps shut and I wonder momentarily what he was actually going to say.

Then it no longer matters because Kurama is falling.

* * *

_Too much blood…_

Maybe, maybe this time, his mother will catch him. She didn't before, but it's different now. The world has gone dark and he's falling through a thick mist, and maybe when he wakes up there will be only one world. The real world, only he won't have a sword through him.

He feels the arms grab him before he hits the ground and he thinks he has never been so relieved.

"Mom," he mumbles.

"Snap out of it, Kurama!" a voice that is not his mother's barks in his ear. "It isn't real!"

"I'm dizzy," is the best he can respond with. As an afterthought, he adds "It feels real."

"It _was_ real," another voice says. "But it's over. You're fine."

Now that he thinks about it, why shouldn't he be fine? There's something special about his body that will let him heal. Something… not quite human.

Though Kurama opens his eyes and the

_(not-quite)_

world fades back into focus, there is nothing 'fine' about him.

* * *

"Don't shake him," I tell Hiei. He's not doing it really hard or anything… but I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to do that to someone who just semi-fainted. 

"Would you rather I slap him?" Hiei retorts. For some reason, that stings.

Before I can figure out why, my attention is drawn to Kurama. His eyes are open. He still looks pretty out of it, but I guess it's an improvement.

"Can you stand?" Hiei asks. Kurama blinks before nodding slowly. He gets to his feet, teeters a moment, then roots to a standing position. It looks like it's taking some effort. Hiei's got an arm out, ready to grab him again.

"It's all right," Kurama says. "I got stabbed, but it's okay now. I feel better."

Hiei and I share a look. Neither of us knows what to say.

"I think," I begin, "we need to find a way to get to the Spirit World as quickly as we can and fix all this."

Kurama nods vaguely. Hiei scowls but doesn't argue.

"So all that we need to do is remember how to get there," I clarify.

"Perhaps I can help you if you can help me," a voice says from behind us.

I can't say that I enjoy this people-coming-up-behind me business. The only reason that I don't jump is that I'm crouched on the ground beside the others.

A young man is leaning against the wall of a building, watching us from a few feet away. At least, I assume he's watching us. There's sunglasses covering his eyes and I don't know where he's looking. I don't recognize him the way I did Hiei and Kurama… but he looks familiar.

Which says something considering there can't be that many people with green hair.

When he pulls away from the wall and walks towards us, a chill runs up my spine. My stomach does a little flip inside me, and suddenly it feels like I'll never be hungry again.

There's something wrong with this man.

He smiles and the world grows cold.

"Let us work out a bargain, Urameshi Yusuke."


End file.
